


As Lucky Would Have It

by dapperanachronism



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Fluff, Lucky is the best dog, M/M, get-together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10090499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperanachronism/pseuds/dapperanachronism
Summary: He tells himself a lot of things. Things like he's not a burden, things like he's getting better, things like he's awake in the middle of the night by choice, just because he enjoys prowling around the tower at night when it's quiet. It's the truth, if not the whole truth. What is also the truth is how much he enjoys finding Clint curled up on the living room floor next to a scruffy dog that Bucky knows doesn't live in the tower with them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thanks goes out to out to [prompt_fills](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/pseuds/prompt_fills) who made all of the gorgeous art for this fic, and who was a wonderful partner and fantastic collaborate. Thank you for a great experience, I really enjoyed working with you. You can see all of the art combined [here ](http://placna.tumblr.com/post/157953879357/art-for-dapperanachronisms-story-as-lucky-would) and a full size version of the cover art [here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10077638)
> 
> Thanks also to [Robin_tCJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_tCJ/pseuds/Robin_tCJ) for the beta. Thanks is never enough. I owe you like seven cookies.

He’s fine _._

He’s leaning against the floor to ceiling window in his room, his arms and forehead resting against the cool glass, watching the city move below. Thousands of lights cast an orange glow into the night sky. The city is beautiful at night. 

Exhaustion tugs at the corners of his eyes, sinks into his bones, leaves him feeling achy and cold. It’s probably just in his head. That’s what he tells himself anyway. Just like he tells himself that he’s awake by choice, because he enjoys prowling around the tower at night when it’s quiet. It’s not a lie, not really, but neither is it the whole truth. But he refuses to acknowledge that.

Because he’s _fine._

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Steve had asked for the dozenth time, just as he and Tony were headed for the door. Bucky had rolled his eyes in response.

“I’ll be fine, Steve, I’m an adult.” Huffing, he shoved Steve towards the door. Behind Steve, Tony was throwing him a look that was equal parts gratitude, and ‘don’t you dare fuck this up for me, Barnes.’ “Enjoy your break. You deserve it.”

It hadn’t been a lie. He _will_ be fine. But that doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to still have bad days -- or nights. He just isn’t prepared to let his shit rule Steve’s life any longer. He can find other ways to cope when Steve isn’t around. 

He takes a breath.

The sight of the river, his hands, the cars, the buildings beside the tower, the lights.

He takes a breath.

The feel of glass, the metal, his sweater, the floor under his bare feet.

He takes a breath. 

The soft sound of air circulation, his own breathing, his fingers tapping on the window.

He takes a breath.

The smell of shampoo lingering on his hair, the tea by his bedside.

He takes a breath.

The taste of spearmint toothpaste on his tongue. 

He takes a -- takes a goddamn _breath_.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He’s in New York, in Avengers Tower. He is home. 

The tightness in his chest eases, slightly, but there’s still no chance that he’ll be going to sleep any time soon. Score one for exhaustion, thanks, Brain. Sighing, Bucky turns and pads softly out of his room. 

The kitchen lights are down low when he enters, and he doesn’t bother to turn them brighter. He can see just fine, and he likes the ambience. Methodically, Bucky pulls out the milk, a pot, the chocolate, and sets about heating it all on the stove. Most of the time he uses the fancy steamer Tony has that heats the milk up in minutes, but tonight he feels the need to do it the old fashioned way. Besides, he needs the distraction. 

He’s barely getting started when he hears a rustle and a whine coming from the living area, adjacent to the kitchen in the open main floor. Bucky is immediately on alert. He shoves the pot off the stove and spins around, shoulders tense, ready to fight. Silently, he picks his way across the space and into the livingroom. It’s dark, but the light from the kitchen is enough that he can see. As he creeps around the end of the couch, he makes out two figures lying on the floor -- one vaguely human shaped, the other much smaller and curled up. The curled up one whimpers again, and the human shape lifts his head and whispers softly,

“Hey, now, you’re okay, we’re okay.” It reaches out and gently pets the curled up figure -- a dog, Bucky can see now.

“Clint?” Bucky asks in surprise, his stance relaxing automatically. It _is_ Clint. Clint, laying on the floor of the dark room, next to a dog. “What the hell?”

Clint looks up at him and shrugs -- or what passes for a a shrug, at least, Bucky figures. Clint’s shoulder moves, anyway, that counts.

“Why the hell are you sleeping on the floor… with a dog?” Last he’d checked, the tower didn’t have dogs. Not that Bucky would have minded having a dog around, but it was Tony they had to convince. Bucky got the impression Tony would be less than amenable to the idea.

“Long story,” Clint said gruffly. Bucky pauses for a moment, looks at Clint, looks at the dog, who is now butting its head up against Clint’s, then glances back at the kitchen. 

“I’ll be right back.” Bucky likes Clint, likes spending time around him. Right from the beginning, Clint hadn’t shied away from him, hadn’t ever walked on eggshells around him, or treated Bucky like he might break or explode or fall apart at any moment. The first time Bucky had come across Clint in the kitchen, Clint had sized him up for a second, and then immediately waved Bucky along to follow him. That was the first day Bucky had ever been introduced to video games, and more importantly, the first day he’d laughed around anyone other than Steve. 

A few minutes later, Bucky returns to the living room to find that Clint hasn't moved from his spot. Bucky drops to the ground beside Clint, a mug in each hand full of steaming hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and shaved chocolate. Clint cracks open an eye, then immediately sits up. 

“Oh my god, you’re my favourite,” Clint says reverently, his eyes shining brightly as he takes the mug from Bucky’s hand and sips, moaning slightly at the taste. “Holy shit this is amazing. How is this so amazing?”

“The secret ingredient is the tears of my enemies,” Bucky says deadpan. Clint snorts as he drinks, ending up with a fleck of cream on his nose. Without thinking, Bucky leans over and wipes it off. 

“So, you wanna tell me why you suddenly have a dog with you?” The dog in question had sat up when Clint sat up and and is now sniffing Bucky curiously, peering at him with only one eye, the other damaged and scarred. It presses its cold nose against Bucky’s cheek, licks him once, and then promptly lays back down with its head resting on Bucky’s leg.

“Aw, did you just steal my dog?” Clint whines, just as the dog shifts and leans back so that he is pressed against Clint’s leg, as well, without moving his head.

“Think your dog has good taste,” Bucky remarks.

“His name is Lucky. And yeah, I think he does,” Clint agrees.

“Is Lucky hungry?”

Clint shook his head in reply. “Probably not. We had some leftover pizza when we got home.”

Bucky gives him a _look._ “Pizza isn’t dog food, Clint.”

“I know that,” Clint says, affronted. “But it’s not exactly easy to find dog food in the middle of the night, even in New York. I’ll get some tomorrow.”

“Okay, that’s a fair point,” Bucky concedes, but only just. “Does Lucky have owners?”

Clint shakes his head again. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.” The way that Clint’s face clouds over momentarily tells Bucky that there’s more to the story. He raises an eyebrow and stares, waiting for Clint to continue. For a second, Bucky thinks Clint won’t. He diverts his eyes, glances down at Lucky and gives the dog a gentle, almost tender pat. Lucky closes his eyes and tilts his head into Clint’s hand. 

“The guys who had him before were assholes,” Clint says simply. “We had an… altercation.”

“An altercation,” Bucky repeats flatly, leveling his eyes at Clint. Clint merely shrugs.

“Like I said, they were assholes. We argued, things got heated. Some wannabe street thug tried to knife me, Lucky jumped in to stop him. Guy kicks the dog, I kicked the guy. Long story short, I left them bleeding in an alley and took Lucky with me. Wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“And is he?”

“Vet said he will be. Just bruised, nothing broken. Guys hadn’t been treating him well for a while. So I brought him here. Couldn’t just leave him out there, could I?”

Briefly, a wave of anger and disgust wells up in in his chest, punching at the inside of his sternum in a half hearted attempt to break free. Or maybe just beat him down from the inside out. Lucky seems like such a sweet, mild tempered scruff of a dog, how could anyone hurt him? What kind of asshole hurts a dog?

The same kind of asshole who hurts people, his brain supplies. He’s hurt people. A lot of people. How can he rail against the thugs when he himself has done so much worse? He’s far more despicable. What right does he have to be sitting here in comfort, Lucky and Clint trusting him with ease? There was a time not long ago that he wouldn’t have hesitated to hurt either of them if --

Bucky drops his flesh hand to Lucky’s side, fingers tangling in the soft, light fur. He steadies his breath, trying to break out of the spiraling thoughts by focusing on the sensation of warm fur against his skin. Lucky must notice a change in Bucky’s demeanour because he lifts his head and gently licks at Bucky’s chin before laying back down. Clint has moved from his position, hasn’t shown any sign of tension or increased alertness, but Bucky suspects that Clint notices the subtle shift in the moment, brief though it is. 

“Course not,” Bucky agrees, bringing himself around. “Just a typical Thursday in New York for Hawkeye.”

That gets a snort of a laugh out of Bucky, and something in his chest loosens. The panic is starting to subside. He can still feel it, lurking in the back of his mind, but it’s growing distant now, subdued by the comforting weight of Lucky’s head on his knee and Clint half sprawled out beside him. 

For a long moment they're both quiet, but it's a comfortable silence that settles between them, the kind that puts him at ease. Bucky finishes the last of his hot chocolate and sets the mug aside. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Clint doing the same before stretching out and grabbing a couple of pillows from the couch to lean against. He throws one at Bucky, and Bucky catches it. It isn’t long before Clint’s eyes close and his breath evens out. Bucky is more than content to quietly lay here while Clint and Lucky both sleep. It’s safe, and it feels almost as if there’s a spot carved out here, just for him, as he watches the rise and fall of Clint’s chest. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he’ll take it nonetheless.

Bucky doesn’t plan on falling asleep, but his body relaxes as they lay there, Lucky curled up between them. Bucky takes a calming breath of his own, matching it to Clint’s, and then another, and another. Sleep comes easily after that. This time, he doesn’t dream.

The shooting range is one of the great things that Tony had built into the tower. It’s not like Bucky is going to be out in the field any time soon, but he still likes keeping his skills sharp. And there is a certain comfort in the familiarity that comes in from having the rifle in his hand, pressed up against his shoulder. 

He takes a shot.

It’s not his targets as the Soldier that he things about -- not that there weren’t plenty of those, people he’d taken down at long range, who’d never seen him coming -- no, what he thinks about is long before that. He remembers the war, laying in his position up on a ridge. He remembers covering Steve, taking a shot, taking out a HYDRA soldier who’d been trying to sneak up behind Steve. Bucky wonders what that would feel like now. He knows Steve still fights, that Steve still manages to find trouble, that Steve will always need someone to cover him.

But it’s not just Steve.

Clint is an archer, a sniper like him. Clint sees better from a distance. Clint has sharp eyes, he notices everything, he protects his team. Bucky respects and admires that.

He takes a shot.

He’s seen Clint fight hand to hand before and it’s amazing. He moves with grace and intensity, a complete juxtaposition from the Clint he sees stumbling around in the morning, hair sticking up in every direction, the Clint who manages to trip over his own two feet on the way to the coffee pot. 

The point is, Clint isn’t always fighting from a distance. Bucky’s thoughts shift. In his mind he’s in the field, it’s not just Steve he’s watching out for, it’s Clint. He looks down his scope, at the target, his stomach tightening at the idea of someone trying to hurt Clint. He knows it’s happened before, that it will happen again.

He takes a shot.

Behind him, Bucky hears a soft whine and the thud of a tail against the floor. The magazine of his rifle is empty, so he takes a step back and sets the rifle down on the stand. As soon as he does, when the lane is obviously clear, Lucky jumps up and darts past him, tearing down to the other end.

“What the hell?” Bucky curses out loud, turning to chase after the dog. Lucky is already at the far end, pawing at the backstop where Bucky’s bullets went in, whining when his paws and his snout don’t fit into the tiny holes. “What are you trying to do, pal?” 

Reaching the end of the range, Bucky drops to one knee, scratching at the back of Lucky’s head as he noses at the wall. 

“Aw, Lucky, no. Bullets aren’t arrows.” Bucky spins around and looks back to see Clint jogging down the lane towards him. Lucky abandons his task of digging at the wall and meets Clint, flopping down at his feet. Bucky stands and eyes Clint. 

“Bullets aren’t arrows?” he asks. Clint shrugs in response.

“Lucky likes fetching arrows,” he says, as though it’s the most reasonable explanation in the world. Bucky blinks.

“You’ve had that dog less than three days, how have you taught him to fetch arrows already?”

“I didn’t teach him, he just does it, ‘cause he’s great.” Clint grins and grabs Bucky’s arm, dragging him back down the range to the shooting line, Lucky happily bounding after them. Bucky stands to the side and Lucky sits calmly beside him as Clint grabs his bow and a quiver of arrows. He steps up to the shooting line, raises the bow, and fires off six shots in quick succession -- so quick it’s almost a blur. It’s a beautiful sight. He moves with grace and fluidity, every arrow striking its mark with laser precision. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shift and move, rock-stable and defined from the hundreds of thousands of times they’ve done this exact motion. The corner of Clint’s mouth twitches in a hint of a smirk, satisfied with himself. He never misses, but he still takes pride in his perfect shots. Bucky respects that, too. 

Clint lowers the bow, steps back, hangs it on the stand. As soon as Clint’s hands are empty, Lucky takes off down the range. Bucky watches as Lucky reaches the far end, stands on his hind legs, rests his front paws on the buttress. He gently bites around the middle of the arrow and tugs. The buttress is softer than the back stop Bucky had been shooting at, designed for arrows, not bullets, and Lucky is able to pull out the arrow with ease. Happily, he trots back down to the shooting line where Clint and Bucky are standing, drops the arrow at Clint’s feet and turns to repeat the whole process until all six arrows are in a neat pile. Clint looks over at him, grinning like the smug bastard that he is. 

“See? My dog is great.” 

Lucky is happily thumping his tail on the floor, looking up at Bucky with the same stupid grin as his owner, his one eye shining happily. They’re ridiculous, the pair of them. Lucky is so much like Clint it’s almost a little terrifying. But Bucky adores it. Adores the both of them. He’s willing to admit that much to himself. 

“Yeah, your dog is pretty great,” Bucky admits. “I mean, he puts up with you.”

“So do you,” Clint points out, and Bucky can’t really deny that either. He’s saved from having to answer when Lucky decides that he’s had enough of Clint’s inaction, and noses the pile of arrows over towards Bucky. He looks up hopefully.

“Well now you have to play fetch with him,” Clint says soberly. “He’s asking real nice, you don’t wanna disappoint that cute face, do you?” As if on cue, Lucky whines and looks wistfully back down the range. They’re in cahoots, the pair of them, Bucky swears. 

Not one to back down from a challenge, or disappoint a dog -- because Lucky _is_ great, okay? -- Bucky carefully picks up Clint’s bow. It feels strange in his hand, but his fingers wrap carefully around the riser’s grip. He’s never held a bow before, let alone shot one. He’s so used to weapons feeling natural in his hands, so used to knowing how to use them to maximum efficiency that the feeling of uncertainty catches him off guard. He’s watched Clint often enough that he knows what to do, but the motions aren’t ingrained in his muscle memory. He actually has to think about what he’s doing, about not gripping the bow too tightly, about nocking the arrow, about how to draw and hold his arm. Clint must notice his uncertainty, for all that Bucky’s trying to mask it, because he steps up behind Bucky and rests his hands on both of Bucky’s elbows. 

“Keep your bow hand loose, elbow turned out, knuckles at, like, forty-five degrees,” Clint explains, manipulating Bucky’s arm into the correct position. He doesn’t hesitate to get into Bucky’s space, to touch him. He doesn’t flinch at the feeling of Bucky’s metal arm. Of course he wouldn’t, it’s not the first time Clint has touched him, but still Bucky is occasionally caught off guard by gentle, casual touches. 

“Doing it like this, you’re less likely to have the string hit your arm when you release,” Clint continues. “Trust me, it hurts, and it totally messes up the shot. And keep the elbow on your draw arm down. You want a straight line from here, to here.” Clint’s finger draws a straight line all the way from the wrist of Bucky’s extended hand, along his arm, his shoulders, and the bicep of his draw arm all the way to his bent elbow. “Straight line as you draw back, release, follow through.”

Bucky can do this. He’s watched Clint do the same countless times. Steadying his breath, he does as instructed. He draws the arrow back, eyes fixed on the target. He visualizes the flight path of the arrow, sees where he wants it to end up.

He takes the shot.

“Not bad, especially for your first time,” Clint says mildly. The arrow is sticking out close to the middle of the target. Not the dead centre, but still not a terrible shot.

“Again?” Clint asks. Bucky nods, and repeats the motion.

The second ends up two inches to the left, the third a little low, and it continues like that until Bucky has a cluster of six that are closeish together. Close, but nowhere near what he’d consider remotely acceptable if he were shooting with his rifle. He lowers the bow and huffs in annoyance.

“Hey, that’s a pretty solid grouping, Buck. Nothing to scoff at. Besides, we can’t all be perfect.” Clint grins, it’s full of playful teasing and gentle ribbing as he takes the bow from Bucky’s hand and hangs it back on the rack. The moment he steps back and both their hands are empty, Lucky takes off again, eager to do his part and bring all the arrows back.

“I’d kick your ass with a rifle,” Bucky says conversationally as they watch Lucky trot back and forth. Clint cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh, you think so, Barnes?”

“I know so,” Bucky says with easy confidence. Clint looks at him, and for a split second his eyes drop to Bucky’s mouth. It’s so quick Bucky almost isn’t sure he sees it before Clint’s eyes are back on his own.

 

“I think I wanna see you in action. You know, just to make sure you really are as great as you say.” Clint’s eyes almost flicker again, almost like it’s a strain to keep them from wandering.

“Name your time and place, Barton.”

Bucky’s not entirely sure they’re just talking about shooting anymore. But he’s pretty sure that if they aren’t, he’s okay with that.

 

It would be nice if every day could be like the afternoon that he spent in the range with Clint, where his mind actually gave him a moment of peace, where he felt relaxed and happy and like himself -- like the Bucky he’s trying to be. But his brain has other plans. 

He’d woken up that morning with a start, a heavy, anxious weight in his chest and a tension in his shoulders. He hadn’t wanted to get out of the safety of the piles of blankets on his bed, but at the same time every muscle in his body was screaming at him to move. He’d found himself prowling around the tower with what Sam called his murder scowl, unable to keep still, unable to keep his focus on any one thing until he was wound so tightly he snapped and lashed out at Natasha about... something. He honestly couldn’t remember what had set him off, because whatever it was was insignificant. He’d sworn at her in Russian, she’d cussed back at him in the same, unflinching, her expression neutral. But under it Bucky saw the equal parts sympathy, concern, and unwillingness to capitulate to too much of his moodiness. He respects that. On more than one occasion when he’d been in a mood like this, it was her that he’d turned to. They don’t often talk about it -- they don’t have to -- but she understands him.

Today isn’t one of those peaceful days.

The air in the room is stifling, even in the wide open common space with the windows overlooking the city it feels too closed in.

He needs to get out.

Muttering an apology, Bucky turns on his heels and flees, outside, down the street, into the park. There are people here, but they are people who won’t even notice him, let alone spare him a second glance, and at least out here he can breathe. 

For a long while he simply wanders, fighting his urge to run with his need to not draw attention to himself. He hates days like this -- feeling anxious, out of sorts. At first they had been a reprieve from the days he’d spent caught up in his own head, in the loop of memories. But he’d very quickly realised that this was still his brain making him get caught up in his own head, just in new and inventive ways. 

Eventually, he slows, and comes to a stop back at the south end of the park, close to where he’d come in. He sits on the grass in the shade of a tree and slowly breathes, trying to ground himself.

This constant war with himself is exhausting. Some days it still feels like he’s fighting a losing battle even though he _knows_ how far he’s come. 

The day is warm, but he keeps his sweater on -- sitting around in just his shirt, he’d feel too exposed, which is stupid, but he can’t help it. He turns his attention to watching people as they walk past and the few brave birds swooping around. In an instant, he’s struck with the realisation that he wishes Clint were here with him. He can hear laughter around him, and it’s nice, but Clint’s is nicer. He thinks that Clint would enjoy stretching out in the soft grass, and briefly he wonders if Clint prefers the sun or the shade. 

An instant later, Bucky’s eyes track movement, a golden blur bounding towards him. He rolls himself into a defensive crouch just in time to get hit with a warm mass of fur and legs. Instinctively, Bucky reaches out and catches the thing as it jumps into his arms and noses at his face.

“Lucky? What the hell are you doing here?” Bucky asks, startled, and not actually expecting the dog to reply. Lucky whines and Bucky puts him down, kneeling beside him. “How did you get out?” 

Lucky rests a paw on Bucky’s knee and gently licks his jaw. Immediately, Bucky wraps his arms around Lucky and hugs him, burying his face in the soft, warm fur. Lucky is content to let him, his tail thumping happily against the ground. Bucky clings to him as if the dog were his lifeline, and slowly, ever so slowly, the anxious tightness that Bucky has been carrying with him all day begins to lessen. Lucky must sense that Bucky needs this, because he doesn’t pull away, not until Bucky sits up and lets go his hold. 

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky murmurs, scratching behind his ears as Lucky looks up at him with his one bright, brown eye. It’s only been a few days since Clint brought Lucky home, but Bucky is prepared to raise hell in order to keep him at the tower. Tony can suck it up, they have a dog now. 

Lucky seems to have achieved what he set out to do, because after another minute, he flops down in the grass and stretches out, content now to let Bucky go back to his watching and thinking, which he does, his hand reaching over to pet Lucky every few minutes. They’re still sitting like that nearly forty-five minutes later when Clint’s voice grabs his attention. 

“Oh my god, there you are.” Clint is standing a ways away, breathing heavily, hair sticking up in all directions and eyes wild. But it’s not Bucky that he’s looking at.

“I looked everywhere for you,” Clint continues, finally reaching them and dropping to the grass beside Lucky. Lucky sits up and Clint takes his head gently in both hands. “Everywhere. I searched the whole tower. And the whole tower again. I searched my room, and Bucky’s room, and the living room and the kitchen, and the gym. I spent thirty minutes crawling around the air ducts trying to find you.”

“The air ducts?” Bucky cuts in, stifling a laugh. “Really?”

Clint spares him only a slight, withering glance. “ _Dogs,_ Bucky,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, which okay, this particular dog does fetch arrows, and did track him down in Central Park, but still.

Lucky just grins in response and Clint sighs, ruffling his fur. “You had me terrified. And then I finally asked Jarvis where you were and you know what he tells me?”

“Your dog ran outside?” Bucky says, unable to stop himself.

“He said my dog ran outside! He said you took off, Bucky, and Lucky got concerned and went after you into the park!”

Lucky whines softly and dropped his head onto Clint’s leg, looking up at him sadly, and Bucky leans over and nudges Clint’s shoulder gently.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Clint. I promise I wouldn’t let anything happen to him,” Bucky assures him tentatively. 

“Nah, it’s okay. Lucky’s a smart dog. He was just looking out for you.”

“He is a smart dog,” Bucky agrees, ignoring the part about Lucky looking out for him because he’s not quite sure how to respond. He’ll need to think on that, and on the way that all week, Clint and Lucky have managed to appear exactly when he needed them, without him asking. 

Clint flops down on the grass and looks up at Bucky expectantly. Bucky complies with the silent request and settles himself back down, only to have Clint promptly drop his head down on Bucky’s thigh. 

“You’re more comfortable that the ground,” Clint informs him, and Bucky doesn’t argue, not when the weight of Clint’s head feels like a comfort rather than a burden. He’s struck with a sudden compulsion to run his fingers through Clint’s hair, soft, casual touches. He wonders if Clint would mind. Probably not, but he’s not going to risk it, too hesitant to push at boundaries and feelings he doesn’t fully understand. 

For a while, they’re all content to lay there, right up until Lucky decides that he’s had enough of being still and wants to play. He jumps up, and Bucky sees the whole thing happening but does nothing to stop it as Lucky plants his feet heavily on Clint’s stomach, knocking a puff of air out of him. 

“Oh my god, you killed me,” Clint whines, pushing Lucky off and tries to sit up. Bucky sees Clint’s mistake before he does and stifles a laugh at Clint’s indignant yelp as Lucky tackles him, thinking that Clint is preparing to wrestle with him. 

“The great Hawkeye, bested by his own dog,” Bucky teases in mock disappointment as Clint rolls to his feet, preparing for for Lucky’s next onslaught. Lucky, it turns out, has other ideas. It turns out that Lucky’s ideas involve taking down the Winter Soldier. It turns out, Lucky almost succeeds, managing to nearly trip Bucky up as he tries to roll to his feet. He catches himself, only just, and manages to spin himself into something approximating a graceful recovery. 

“Now who’d bested by a dog?” Clint throws back, opening laughing at the performance. Bucky looks up and him, wounded, and somehow that just makes Clint laugh more. From there it becomes a game of tirelessly chasing Lucky around the green space, catching him, play fighting for a few minutes with either Clint, or Bucky, or more often both on their knees down at Lucky’s level, before letting him take off again.

It’s quite possibly the most fun that Bucky has had in -- well, a long time. His face hurts from smiling so much, and the negative feelings from that morning are a distant memory. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Clint giving him a strange look when he thinks Buck isn’t paying attention. It’s look that Bucky can’t quite read, but if he had to guess, he’d say that the way Clint looks kind of reminds him of how he’s feeling. It’s the kind of look that makes Bucky wonder if all of this is maybe something he can actually have. 

He’s ready to go back.

The lights in the room are low, a soft glow from the kitchen that spills over into the open space, and the orange from the millions of city lights below. But it’s all he needs. 

He checks his weapons.

His handgun is holstered, his knives stowed, his tac suit and utility belt secured. His rifle is broken down into component pieces in a duffel at his feet. As far as safe houses go, this one isn’t his favourite. It’s well stocked, he appreciates that, but it’s lavish, it’s open. And while the floor to ceiling windows of the room grant him a good view, it also provides the enemy with ample sightlines. 

It’s sloppy. He doesn’t like it. 

While he waits, he runs over the mission briefing in his head -- the details of his target, his entry plan, his exit route. In and out. He prefers the rifle, it’s quicker and cleaner, less chance of being seen, but the location won’t allow for it. He’d spent the night before on recon, checking the sightlines. Attempting a snipe has only a 73% chance of mission success. It’s not good enough. He’ll bring the rifle anyway and stash it, just in case. He has a plan, but targets often don’t do as they are meant to. He must be prepared. He doesn’t fail. Ever.

He checks his weapons. 

It’s almost time. It will take seventeen minutes to reach the target’s location. He reviews the route in his head, and the secondary route. When he’s done, he’ll report back in to a different location. Too dangerous to come back to the same place, especially a high profile location such as this. 

He checks --

Something isn’t right.

A soft whine interrupts him. He turns, dropping into a fighting stance, ready to tackle the enemy, to interrogate. There shouldn’t be anyone here but him. 

It’s not a person standing in front of him, it’s a dog. He frowns. There shouldn’t be a dog here. Why the hell is there a dog at his safe house? 

The dog approaches, fearless, and whines again. The cold wet nose presses against his gloved, metal hand. He’s clutching a knife tightly in his right hand but he doesn’t strike. The dog isn’t a threat. Tentatively, he runs his metal fingers through the dog’s fur. It’s soft, and familiar, but that doesn’t make sense. There shouldn’t be a dog here.

He takes a step back. The dog turns and runs back across the space and out of sight. His eyes track it, but stop halfway across the room at a point on the floor by the couch. Something flashes through his mind -- an image -- no, a memory. The dog is there, and another person. Laying on the floor. Blond hair, bright eyes, a carefree smile. He’s sitting beside them, something warm in his hands. He remembers the weight of the dog’s head on his leg.

Focus. Memory is faulty. Attention diverted to the mission objective only. It’s time to leave.

He checks his weapons.

When he looks up, the blond man is standing there, staring at him. “Hey, Buck,” the man says carefully. Clint, his brain supplies. He doesn’t know a Clint.

Yes he does. The man on the floor with the dog. The smile. The feeling of safety. The dog is at his side again, pawing at his foot and whining more insistently. He can’t feel the paw through his boot but his mind knows what it feels like. The dog butts its head again his leg, looking at him with sad eyes. Bucky doesn’t like sad eyes. He looks up. The man in front of him also looks concerned, afraid, but not for himself. He doesn’t like that either. He frowns. These feelings are incompatible with the mission objective.

What mission objective?

He can’t quite remember.

The man whose name he can’t possibly know speaks again. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re in New York. In Avengers Tower. You’re home.”

James Barnes. Yes. That sounds right.

The fog in his head clears. His perception shifts. He feels like he’s breaking through water for air. 

“Clint.” His voice sounds raspy to his own ears, all the adrenaline rushes out of him, and suddenly his tac gear feels too heavy. Clint must see his knees threatening to give out before he even realises it himself, because he’s trembling, but Clint is there at his side, arms around him, guiding him down to the floor.

“Hey, it’s okay Bucky, I’ve got you, you’re safe.” Clint’s voice is reassuring, it makes Bucky believe that he is safe, and accordingly he lets his body go limp, head dropping to Clint’s shoulder. Lucky drapes himself across Bucky’s lap -- almost like he’s protecting him -- and licks at Bucky’s cheek. 

Bucky’s whole body is shaking now as his brain struggles to sort itself out and pull him back to the present. He’s not on a mission. There is no target. He’s not the asset. He’s Bucky, and he has his Clint and his Lucky. He’s safe.

Clint doesn’t say anything for a long time, and doesn’t move until Bucky shifts. The tac gear feels oppressive and uncomfortable, and he needs to get it _off._ His fingers are still unsteady as he pulls at the straps and Clint’s hands cover his own.

“Let me,” Clint says softly. Bucky nods and drops his shaking hands. Clint makes short work of the gear, first the utility belt, then the vest, then the jacket. Bucky leans forward as Clint pushes the gear off his shoulders, and works on untying his boots. Soon, Bucky is left with only the pants and his undershirt, and already he feels so much better. He presses himself back against Clint’s chest and Clint’s arms wrap around him, secure. They breathe together, Bucky matching his breaths to Clint’s steady, deliberate rhythm. 

“I’m okay,” Bucky says eventually, slowly sitting up but not pulling away.

“I know you are,” Clint responds easily. “I’m still glad Lucky came to find me.”

“Lucky?” Bucky looks down at the dog, who’s still half asleep on his lap.

“Yeah. Jarvis lets him in and out of my room whenever he wants. He woke me up and dragged me out here where I found you…”

Found him suited up in full soldier mode. Because his brain had been stuck, had thought there’d been a mission. For the first time, Bucky notices that Clint is dressed only in light sleep pants and a soft, threadbare shirt. Bucky shudders to think what might have happened if Lucky hadn’t intervened. Probably Jarvis would have stopped him doing anything damaging. But, still. 

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky said, gently petting Lucky on the head. It takes another minute for his brain to fully catch up. Clint came when he was in trouble. Clint helped him ground himself. Clint stayed with him. Clint shows no signs of leaving. Clint is always there when Bucky needs him.

Clint cares about him.

Bucky sits up straighter and meets Clint’s gaze. Sure enough, Clint is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. Bucky knows that look. He suspects his own face has worn that same expression countless times, especially in the past few days.

“Clint, I --” He’s not good with words. He knows Clint isn’t great with words either. Maybe this is a bad idea, but Bucky feels _safe_ and even though he’s feeling wrung out and exhausted, he knows he hasn’t been misreading the signs. And he really doesn’t want Clint to go anywhere.

It’s the easiest thing to lean in and press his mouth against Clint’s in a kiss. Words are overrated right now, anyway.

They’re already tangled together sitting on the floor. Clint slides his hand up Bucky’s back and returns the kiss with a hesitance that is clearly the result of him trying to hold back, and not of disinterest. Bucky doesn’t want to hold back. He wants to ground himself in this moment.

Growling a little, he deepens the kiss and nips at Clint’s lower lip. Clint complies, parting his lips, and Bucky slips his tongue inside Clint’s mouth. Every nerve feels like it’s lit up and on fire, and he never wants to pull away. But they both need air. Reluctantly, he shifts back and Clint whines at the loss of contact. Bucky realises at some point Lucky has left and is sitting a few feet away. He looks at them both, grins his dopey grin, barks once and trots away. 

“Buck, you don’t --” Clint starts to say but Bucky won’t have it. 

“I’m choosing this,” Bucky says. He feels fragile, like he’s ready to come apart at the seams, he always does after a rough episode -- and this one was rougher than most. Clint understands. They haven’t talked much about it, about Clint’s experiences, but Bucky knows he understands. 

Bucky isn’t alone. 

“Think I can convince you to get up?” Clint asks, shifting under Bucky. “I don’t want to leave you alone, and I definitely like what you were just doing. But… bed is nice.”

Bucky shivers slightly and nods, getting to his feet. Clint is right beside him, arm around his waist, a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere. Bucky slides his own arm around Clint’s shoulders. He’s not going anywhere either. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](https://dapperanachronism.tumblr.com)


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